


Just One Dance

by Emi_theSassiestSousa



Series: A Change is Gonna Come [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Enmeshed, Demon Dean, Dubious Consent all up in this Biz, Heartbreak, Jazz Club, M/M, The Music is basically a character at this point, canon adjacent, crowley deserves to be loved, mild Noir wank, obligatory 9x23 quote, so much off-screen rough sex, the Psyche of Demons, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emi_theSassiestSousa/pseuds/Emi_theSassiestSousa
Summary: [Dean had] never been so sure of where he wanted to go, of what he wanted to do, and even how he wanted it. The Why wasn’t important. The Why brought up questions. And he had no fucks to give for questions anymore.So when Crowley told him they were going somewhere one night, he didn’t bother with the why. Only the where.“The Emerald City,” Crowley answered with a smirk.Dean just raised a lazy eyebrow at him from his chair.





	Just One Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This story is canon-compliant until the very, very end where we meet up with this canon divergent series. 
> 
> This piece references 10x01 and 10x02 in the tail end, but it’s okay if you haven’t seen those recently, just want you to be expecting that.
> 
> Songs referenced in this piece, and plenty of bonus ones, can be found in the [Drowley Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1261993671/playlist/5XobfZmcUAN9n8PMZxqDSS?si=vSy7zM7GTrOP76QubyuJhw)

———

 

_“Open your eyes, Dean, see what I see, feel what I feel._

_Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”_

 

 ~*~

 

Teleportation was weird. One second you’re where you were, the next you’re somewhere else. The only good thing about it was that it wasn’t hard. Sure, Crowley'd had to guide him the first couple times, but as long as you knew where you wanted to go, you went.

And Dean knew where he wanted to go.

He’d never been so sure of where he wanted to go, of what he wanted to do, and even how he wanted it. The Why wasn’t important. The Why just brought up questions. And he had no fucks to give for questions anymore.

So when Crowley told him they were gonna head out one night, he didn’t bother with the Why. Only the Where.

“The Emerald City,” Crowley answered with a smirk.

Dean just raised a lazy eyebrow from his chair.

“It’s a _club.”_ Crowley rolled his eyes.

“They gonna make us wear green goggles?” Dean asked, still not getting up.

Crowley raised his own questioning brow.

*Chri—* Dean stopped himself. “You’ve never read the actual book.”

“Why would I?”

Dean just sighed, and finally shoved himself up from his chair. “Alright, whatever, lets just go.”

These last weeks here had been a fucking trip for Dean. There'd been all this crap he used to worry about and now it was all just… gone. Dean had been drinking what he wanted, fucking what he wanted, beating what he wanted— Fuck, if this was what eternity had planned for him then tell you what, he was ready to ride this bitch straight into the sunset.

The two of them arrived on a street corner in... some fucking city or another. Once you got far enough in they all looked the same, all high brown buildings and dingy gray sidewalks. Steam rose from vents in the ground and dim orange streetlights cast the oddly vacant street into sharp shadow. They turned down a tight alleyway, footsteps echoing on inexplicably wet pavement as they passed stacks of boxes and cagey fire escapes.

When a man walked past them wearing an overcoat and a fedora, Dean had had about enough.

“The hell, Crowley? You stick us in a fucking Noir novel or what?”

“As fun as that would be, no.” He stopped in front of a tiny green door with a tiny green sign on which faded gold letters read: _The Emerald City._   “We’re somewhere far less pretentious.”

The door opened itself for Crowley and he strolled right in. Dean looked around the alleyway once more before he followed.

The hallway was dingy and dark. Old pipes rattled at the ceiling and the low hum of a crowd could be heard from behind the door at the other end. Dean was one eyeroll away from grumbling something about the sheer level of cliché he’d been dragged into when Crowley turned around, one hand on the doorhandle.

“Now all I ask of you from this," he said to Dean, "is that you not dismiss it immediately. Give it a fair shake.”

Dean shrugged. “Try anything once.”

Crowley grinned in a way that set Dean on edge. “Hopefully more than once,” he said, and pushed open the door.

Harsh guitar struck his ears in a way he was surprised to find he still craved. Across the huge room they stepped into, up on an actual freakin’ bandstand, a woman in an amazingly slinky dress stepped up to the mic. She took a breath, flashed a smile at the crowd, and somehow sang all smooth and brash all at once:

 _“Wild eyed, he is dressed to the nines,_  
_The moon is hangin' above him like a halo on fire,_  
_Black hands, he’s out there lookin' for lambs,_ _  
_ _You better lock up the mansion, baby, throw away the key…”_

Well that wasn’t ominous.

Crowley strode forward like he owned the place, and Dean reminded himself that he just might. He followed Crowleyand started sizing up the cavernous, high-ceilinged room, a habit that apparently hadn't died with his humanity.

Blindingly white tablecloths, check. Gilded gold accents on annoyingly emerald walls, check. A whole crowd of mysterious, yet alluring patrons, check. Exits— three. Check.

If this place screamed Crowley any louder he’d go deaf.

Crowley sauntered up to the bar (which was, of course, wood-trimmed and backlit in gold) staffed by a man (who was seriously wearing those arm bands over an immaculate white shirt,  _come on,_ Crowley) who gave them a hasty once-over with eyes that definitely weren’t human.

“Your highness!" the man burst with an overly-wide smile, "It’s so _good_ to see you back! Your usual?”

Dean could have mouthed the line for Crowley when he answered, “No, I think I'll have something different tonight.”

Dean was not discreet about rolling his eyes.

“Well, I just got a new Tennessee Whiskey in,” the enthusiastic bartender suggested, and, okay, now Dean was listening.

Crowley considered it, but then made a face and said, “You know, actually, yes, just my usual.”

The bartender smiled somehow wider, and placed an amber-filled tumbler on the bartop with suspicious speed. He then looked expectantly to Dean. “And for your guest?” he asked.

Dean looked the ‘man’ up and down, “You got beer in this place?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. Dean smirked.

“He’ll have Scotch,” Crowley said to the bartender while still glaring at Dean. “Good, but not too good.”

The bartender immediately pulled up a tumbler with a few fingers of Scotch, neat.

“Can you at least give me a couple’a rocks in that?”

Dean didn’t actually drink his liquor with ice, but the look on Crowley’s face was absolutely worth it.

With a strain in his smile and a flicker of his eyes to Crowley, the bartender dropped two ice cubes in the glass and hurriedly pushed it forward.

Dean snatched it up and downed half of it on his first swig, finishing with a contented sigh that was absolutely louder than necessary. “So, where to next, Johnny Kelly?” he asked, turning to look out over the club.

Crowley gave him an indolent stare.

*Jesu—* Dean stopped himself. “If you’re gonna rip off the entire _genre_ at least have the decency to _watch_ some fucking Noir, seriously.”

“I’m not _‘ripping off’—”_ Crowley started, but quickly straightened up, composing himself. “I asked one thing of you," he said.

“Fine! Fine,” Dean opened his palms. “Just 'where to next', then.”

Crowley eyed him, a scowl threatening his expression. But he placed the cool smile back onto his face, and led them through the crowded tables to a space near the empty dance floor. He snapped his fingers, and a table and chairs just big enough for two appeared before them. They sat, and woman on stage continued her satin, yet almost screaming, song:

 _“Wolves are at the door,_  
_Don’t let 'em in cause you know what they came for,_  
_Full-blown silver tongue,_  
_Keep one eye open and your hand on the shotgun,_ _  
_ _Oh, what an innocent child, what a beautiful prey…”_

Dean leaned heavily into his chair, slinging an arm over over the back.

“I gotta admit, this ain't half bad,” he said, taking a sip off his glass, “but you got the music all wrong. I _like_ it,” he gestured at the band, “but it’s all wrong.”

“I got the— Do you think I did all this?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

Crowley frowned.

Dean tossed his brow.

The threatened scowl manifested in full, and Crowley raised a hand for a single snap.

The band on stage vanished and was replaced with what looked like a full swing ensemble with a few bonus members. The musicians looked around the room, terribly bemused, before the dashing lead man caught Crowley’s gaze. He visibly swallowed, and hastily signaled to the band.

Roused with professional speed, the pianist clinked out the first bar, quickly followed by the horn section and a man at a soundboard catching on. Then, swinging and jaunty, the lead man joined in:

 _“The ballroom’s packed with coke-y girls,_  
_Satin frocks and shining pearls,_  
_Click my fingers, ladies swoon,_ _  
_ _The hottest dancer in the room…”_

“Yeah, that's better," Dean said, genuinely impressed. "These guys are great."

“I should say, they have a contract,” Crowley said matter-of-factly.

Dean just nodded and tapped his foot along.

Crowley watched him for a moment before he shifted in his seat.

“How is this change going for you?” he asked.

Dean scoffed into his glass. “You gonna ask me about the weather next?”

Crowley waited out the snark for an answer.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You've fuckin’ _been_ here for most of it, you already know I'm fuckin’ lovin’ this.”

“It's still good to hear it.”

“Whatever," he huffed, and fell into a silence, sipping slowly at his drink as he let the songs pass him by.

The lead man took a bow after his second or third bit, and waved an absolute bombshell of a woman forward to take his place. He counted the band off again, and the piano and the saxophone slid the next piece in, slow and sensual. The woman at the mic took a breath and looked directly at Crowley:

 _“Hey, handsome, have you got the ti-ime?_  
_I've been watchin' you since the moment you arrived,_  
_A white suit from London, and shoes from ‘Paris',_ _  
_ _Don't'cha wanna spend about an hour with me?…”_

 _“Mm,”_ Crowley hummed at the band, “they know me so well, I do love this one.”

Leaving his unfinished drink on the table, he stood and offered a hand to Dean.

Dean looked between the hand, Crowley, and the empty dance floor. “Yeah, no.” 

Crowley followed Dean's eyes and frowned. He snapped his fingers.

About half the patrons stood and found dance partners, soon filling the floor.

Dean still wasn't getting up. “I don't dance," he said.

“You do whatever you want," Crowley answered.

Dean met his eyes. 

Crowley smirked.

“Try anything once?” Crowley reminded him. “Unless... you're nervous, of course.”

Dean's look turned sharp.

He drained his glass and smacked it down on the table as he stood. Then Dean snatched Crowley's wrist and dragged him out into the crowd, pushing his way past the other couples.

But for all that bluster, when Dean reached the middle of the floor and turned back to Crowley he was immediately lost, not having a clue as to what came next. Gyrating to Ac/DC was one thing, but actual _dancing...?_

“Honestly,” Crowley huffed. He stepped forward, taking Dean's hand in his own and placing the other under his elbow. “I'll lead, then.”

They swayed back and forth, nothing fancy, just meandering across the dance floor as the airy singer continued to croon:

 _“...All it costs is just a minute now,_  
_For one dollar you can show me how,_  
_I'll take your hand and then your worries, too,_ _  
_ _In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true…”_

It only lasted a long, uncomfortable moment before Dean couldn’t stand it.

“Look, Crowley—” He took a step back. “This is all… sweet n' crap— I guess— but this isn't— it's just _weird_ and—”

He was cut off by a snap. In a breath the band was silenced, the musicians looking down at their instruments in confusion, Dean looking up to Crowley in surprise. The crowd surrounding them slowed to a halt, mumbling into the sudden gap.

Holding Dean's gaze, Crowley waved his raised hand in the air, signaling the band to continue.

The guitarist and the man on the soundboard had a quick conversation, adjustments were made, and they nodded to the lead man.

The guitar led them in this time, as harsh as the first band but heavier this time, creeping, stalking... The other band members snapped along behind it, and the woman at the mic narrowed her eyes and dropped her voice, taking on an unexpected edge:

 _“The street's... a liar..._  
_I'm gonna lure you into the dark,_  
_My cold... desire..._ _  
_ _To hear the boom, boom, boom of your heart…”_

“Get ready,” Crowley said, re-positioning his hands on Dean.

“For what?” Dean jeered, rolling his eyes.

“Why…” Crowley’s gaze slid from where his hand cupped Dean's elbow up to his face, “...for me.”

The drumset _exploded_ with sound and Crowley was off, taking Dean with him across the floor—

 _“...I'M gonna catch ya!_  
_I'M gonna getcha, getcha!_  
_Oh, ah, oh,_  
_I wanna taste the way that you blee-ee-eed, ohh-oh-a-oh!_ _  
_ _...You're my kill of the night,”_

Things slowed again, and Crowley slowed with it, allowing Dean a few measures to gather himself, and he found he was breathless, but not from the effort of dancing.

 _“Now... you're mine..._  
_But what do I do with you, boy?_  
_I'll take... your heart..._ _  
_ _To kick around as a toy,"_

That earlier smile returned to Crowley's face.

 _"The danger is I'm dangerous,_  
_And I might just tear you apart,_ _  
_ _Ohh, oh-a-oh,”_

Crowley's hand dropped to Dean's waist and the next thing Dean knew the drumset was pounding and the volume was building and Crowley was leering with a glint in his—

_"I'M gonna catch ya! I'M gonna getcha, getcha!"_

They took off again at a blinding speed, a whirl of steps and spins and harried twirls and it was all Dean could do to keep up—

_“I wanna taste the way that you blee-ee-eed…”_

And Crowley’s eyes never left him. Dean was looking all over, at the floor, at his feet, at the people around, but Crowley never once wavered—

The volume dropped and so did Crowley, pulling them back to another meandering sway.

The drumset held the beat... the band snapped along... and the singer crouched at the mic and dimmed her voice low, whining now, almost begging:

 _“This is a bad town… For such a pretty face…  
_ _This is a bad town… For such a pretty face…”_

“I can give you anything you know,” Crowley said to him then. “I can give you everything.”

_“This is a bad town… For such a pretty face...!”_

Dean's lips parted despite himself. “That's... That's a hell of an offer.”

_“This is a bad town...! For such a pretty face...!”_

 Crowley inclined his head back with a smirk.

_“This is a bad town! For such a pretty face!”_

“See if I can't deliver.”

_“This is a bad town! For such a pretty face!”_

Dean’s eyes flashed wide.

_"Ohh, oh-a-oh!"_

With one last crescendo the band leapt once more and once more Crowley swept him out over the floor, his arm wrapped fully around Dean's waist, still burning him from the inside with his gaze— and now that Dean was paying attention he saw what had always been there: the desire, the hunger, the raw _want_ in his eyes—

Then drums hit the brakes, the guitar slid it home, and Crowley came to a halt and allowed Dean’s momentum to pull him down in a dip.

And without hesitation, Crowley followed that arc, dropping his head to take a kiss from Dean, long, and deep, and scorching.

 

_“You're my kill of the... niiight”_

 

 

~*~

 

 

Teleporting was still weird. But Dean knew where he wanted to go. Some nights it was to a bar. Some nights it was to a casino or a red light district. Most nights, though, it was down into Hell.

Not that it mattered what time it was in Hell— night, day, who even knew— but that was a whole heap of crap that Dean wasn’t about to bother himself with now.

Because now he was headed right where he wanted to go: into the throne room.

Not bothering to be quiet or inconspicuous, Dean opened the large wooden doors and went to stand at the back of the room. The demons in attendance glanced at him briefly, but soon returned to their King.

The King’s gaze, however, lingered.

But the business of the court continued, and Dean’s cocky leer slipped into a frown. The dealings went on and _on,_ and each passing item ticked off the docket pushed his face darker and darker. 

Just when he was contemplating exactly what kind of scene he should make, Crowley glanced up at him. He must have liked what he saw, because he smirked and finally stood from his throne.

“I think we’re done here,” he said, cutting off the attendant who had been speaking.

The demons eyed each other warily but didn’t dare say a thing. The last subjects who had questioned the haphazard hours of the court had been… removed.

As they left, Crowley and Dean slowly gravitated toward each other.

“You made me wait,” Dean said with scowl.

“Only a little payback,” Crowley smiled in return. “Haven’t seen your sorry face in days.”

Dean turned and began to circle instead of meeting Crowley. “Don’t know what you’re whining about. Stayed for a straight week last time.”

Crowley stopped, and allowed Dean to stalk around him. “Sure, but I know for a fact the task I sent you on should have taken one, two days tops.”

“You didn’t send me anywhere, I did you a favor. So what if I took a little pitstop?”

“A blonde one or a redhead?”

“Like you care.”

Something flashed behind Crowley’s eyes. “Point is I didn’t grant you any furlough days.”

Dean rushed Crowley’s space, so close Crowley must have felt his breath hot from his nose. “Don’t need you to grant me anything.”

“Not what you said a few nights ago when I—”

Dean grabbed Crowley and crashed into him, searing, rough, and possessive. He forced them back, heading for the throne.

Crowley waited until his feet hit the raised deius, then he gripped Dean’s hair and pulled, yanking him back, forcing him down to his knees. Dean just stared up at him, his breathing heavy, his lip twitching with defiance, his eyes burning with hunger.

Crowley loomed over him, voice low and rough, “I know that you do this on purpose.”

Dean flashed a smile. “Do what?”

Crowley narrowed his hooded eyes.

And in a blink they were gone.

 

If the subjects of Hell didn’t know what was going on, even they would be concerned by the sounds that came from the King’s chambers.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Hell was running smoothly.

Sure, things could always be tweaked and perfected— processes streamlined, outputs increased, ambitious minions whipped back into line— but right now, things were steady. And steady was good. Steady could be built upon.

Steady could be pushed aside for another day.

Because right now, Crowley had far more interesting things to tweak.

Dean collapsed to the bed with a heavy grunt. Sometimes that would be it, and without another word he would be out the door, looking for something to slice, something he could stick and make squeal; maybe a soul, maybe a demon, maybe some poor sap on Earth. But this time, though, was one of the times that he stayed. He rolled back over to face Crowley and he gave him a look.

A look completely foreign to Crowley. But when Crowley gave him a quizzical one in return, it disappeared, replaced by the sardonic grin that seemed almost permanently affixed.

Dean was holding something back. And Crowley couldn't have that.

“Going to share with the class?” Crowley chided.

Dean just rolled his eyes and got up to search for his pants.

Crowley snapped his fingers and they were in his hands. He held them up at Dean, “You know, you can do the whole Penn and Teller, too.”

Dean wordlessly snatched his pants.

Crowley watched him, gauging him, but also simply leering, “Whatever it is, you know I want to hear it, right?”

“You want a lot of shit.”

“‘Course I do, and so do you, and we get what we want.”

“Well what I want is to not be talking.”

Crowley caught a belt loop and yanked him back onto the bed.

Dean snarled and flipped, pinning Crowley to the mattress.

“I said I don’t wanna _talk,”_ he growled in his face.

With an extra shove into Crowley’s shoulders Dean pushed himself from the bed. He snatched up his shirt and left while still putting it on.

Crowley frowned after him, the gears already whirling in his head.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The next gap was longer. But the next stay was longer, too.

Crowley had a pile of paperwork as high as the line of damned souls was long, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Not when Dean Winchester kept _looking_ at him like that.

It had taken a few tries, but Crowley thought he might have finally cracked him. It took a combination of enough alcohol to kill an elephant and that thing with his tongue that Dean couldn’t get enough of, but finally, this time, Dean was pliant enough to needle.

“I think you’ve got something to say to me.”

Swaying a bit on the elbow he was propped on, Dean wiped the blood from the quickly healing bite on his lip. “Don’ know what'cher talkin’ about.”

Crowley tipped one side of his mouth, “I think you do.”

Dean blinked slowly. He stared at Crowley, eyes lazily moving all over him. Finally he opened his mouth, “You’re, ah…” he trailed off.

Crowley ticked an eyebrow, “What’s that, boy?”

“Fuck off,” Dean ducked his head, turning into his pillow with blood still on his face.

 _*Agh,_ that's Baronette Satin, damn it,* Crowley grumbled at the stain. He sighed and set that care aside for later, tucking his arms behind his head, “Go on, what’s caught your tongue?”

Dean rolled his eyes and turned over to stare at the ceiling. It was a long time before he said anything.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Crowley would be dead a few times over again if he still needed to breathe.

“Don’t—” he blinked at the ceiling, unable to look over, “Don’t do this, Dean. Don’t lie to me like this.”

“‘M not.”

“Look, not all of us can luck out with a vessel with perfect cheekbones, you—”

“I ain’t talkin’ 'bout that.”

Crowley turned to face him.

“You sell yourself short on that anyway, but I’m not talkin’ 'bout that.”

Dean reached out a hand toward his face. “Ya know I hardly even care 'bout that shit anymore? Or even this,” his fingers ran over a place just beside Crowley’s human face, caressing something there. “I can see so much more now.”

Crowley searched him, looking for the trick, looking for the jab or the snide remark that should follow something like that. But there wasn’t one coming.

Dean could see him. Dean could see all of him. All of him...

And he thought he was beautiful.

“Dean—” he faltered.

Dean lit up with a devilish grin, “Wha’s that, boy?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Dean opened his mouth—

“Later,” Crowley cut him off. He forced himself to look right at him. “Dean. Call me by my name.”

Dean gave him a look, “What, 'Crowley'?"

"No," he said.

"Wait... ‘Fergus’?” he chuckled.

The corner of his mouth ticked up, “Yes.”

Dean’s smile widened, “Fergus...”

“Yes.”

Dean took Crowley’s chin, drawing him forward and said against his lips, _“Fergus…”_

 _“Yes,”_ he breathed, and closed the distance between them.

Dean stayed another day after that.

 

 

~*~

 

 

When Dean left on his next assigned task— or his next favor, as it were— he didn't come back on time, not by a long shot.

When his demons finally found him, they told Crowley he was holed up in a bar.

Crowley told himself he wasn't worried.

 

———

 

When Crowley arrived at The Black Spur for the first time he hardly gave it a passing glance. He went straight to the front where Dean's back was hunched over the bar top.

He stopped short of him, not quite able to put together the demon that had been stalking his halls and… this…

Without a word he sat in the stool next to Dean. Dean didn't even notice.

“Some little tart turn you down?”

Dean finally registered that there was someone next to him. He lifted his head and turned toward Crowley's voice. Slowed by drink, something like confusion or disappointment crossed his face, but then it was gone and he lit up with a smile, “Hey, Fergus, what're you doin’ here?”

Crowley eyed him, “Do you even know how long you’ve been gone?”

Dean shrugged, “A while.”

“A while—” Crowley sighed at the ceiling, “What are you even doing in this wretched dive?”

“Lookin’ for somethin’.”

“Dean, I told you I’d give you anything, everything—”

“Got everythin’ I could want. Did everythin’ I wanted to do! And s’only been like… a month r’somethin’,” he propped his hand on the counter and held up his head, “Can’t ask you for anythin’ else...”

“I’m sure we can think of _something_ else—”

“Nothin’ you could give me anyway,” Dean said as though Crowley hadn’t been speaking.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “What part of ‘everything’ isn’t connecting here?”

Dean sighed and played with one of the numerous empty glasses in front of him, trying to balance it on its edge. He continued, not really addressing Crowley, “They don’t even care. Never even came lookin’ for me. Can’t believe Sam actually listened to that note. Maybe he hit another dog.”

“Hit another dog?”

“Can’t believe Cas… Cas is dead for all I know. But if he isn’t, he hasn’t even tried to— I dunno, mojo me out of this. Don’t want him to, but he hasn’t even tried.”

Crowley’s upper lip twitched. “You don’t need them. You never did.” He placed a hand on Dean’s side, in the curve above his hip. Dean turned to him like he was just noticing he was there. “You’ve got me now.”

“Yeah…” A smile tugged at Dean’s mouth. “Yeah, I do.” He turned to more fully face Crowley. His eyes slowly dipped to his lips and back, “Stay with me up here a while, Fergus? I kinda missed it.”

So Crowley gave his demons the order to continue business as usual. No one was to come looking for him. No one was to call him. And under no circumstances was anyone to speak of where he was.

 

———

 

Dean stepped up on the stage, a beer in hand, and waited for his song to start. He only got a few beats of guitar and almost missed his entrance.

 _“Josie’s on a vacation far away,  
_ _Come around and talk it over,  
_ _So many things that I wanna sa-ay,  
_ _You know I like my girls a little bit older—”_

He winked at Crowley.

 _“—I just wanna use your love, toni-ight!  
_ _I don't wanna lose your love, toni-ight!...”_

The bar was pretty into this one, and Dean finished his karaoke to a healthy round of applause. He stepped off the stage for the next poor sap and headed over to his and Crowley’s table, falling into his seat and taking a swig off his beer.

Crowley looked him up and down with a smile, “Didn't know you were into that pop-y trash.”

“Are you really judging me? Mr. ‘Sure I'll order a Scotch but Two Drinks Later There's an Umbrella in It’?”

Crowley scoffed and sipped from his tumbler. He made a face. This place had terrible Scotch.

 _“I_ thought I did pretty great,” Dean smirked.

“Sure, yeah, if you’re into shrill nonsense.”

“Come on, you gonna do one?”

“God no!” Crowley recoiled.

 _“Come on.”_ Dean shoved him. “Come _ooon, Ferguuus—”_

“Absolutely not.”

Dean huffed and leaned sloppily back against his chair. His eyes caught someone walking across the barroom, “Then I’ll just have to entertain myself, huh?” and he jumped up to chase them down.

Crowley took another sip of his bad Scotch. He told himself it was fine.

 

———

 

For a few days, it seemed like things might get better. The singing, the women, the men, the booze, the fights—  They were even almost kicked out of the room they’d booked for how loud they got together. Dean's spark seemed to be back.

Maybe this could still turn around, after all. Dean had just needed a vacation, a pick-me-up. Things would be fine. Dean would be fine.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

  
Dean wasn’t getting better.

He didn’t know what else to do. If _triplets_ couldn’t break this, what the hell could?

All this cavorting— Dean was losing his edge. So he sent him some easy targets, some expendable minions who were causing trouble anyway, and things were smoothed over a bit but...

Then this girl.

In _his_ bed.

Repeatedly.

And then on top of that, bloody _Moose_ had to call and force his hand.

Words were said, emotions were shown— too much of both to both of the Winchesters, as Crowley would realize later.

He made his offer to Dean. Leave this fetid petri-dish. Move the party. Get back to work. Create the perfect Hell.

And Dean could rule by his side.

“Take the night. Decide. You know where to find me.”

Perhaps an ultimatum would force Dean’s hand as well.

 

———

 

Dean came back stinking like a strip club.

“Like you care,” Dean said as he sat onto a bar stool.

Crowley ground his teeth. Saying anything at this point would just derail his plan.

Crowley explained Dean’s full predicament. The Mark needed to be sated with blood, and Crowley had blood on reserve, under contract in fact.

Dean considered it. Then he tipped his head, “Fine, one time deal.”

He finished his drink and got up, heading for their room.

Crowley followed him, not satisfied with that answer.

“You don’t seem to understand—”

“I understand _plenty,”_ Dean rounded on him and Crowley’s back hit the closing door, slamming it shut. “You want a full-on hit-man. Well I ain’t no hit-man.”

Dean spun away from him and made toward the bed. The wrong bed.

“I don’t want a hit-man—”

 _“Then what do you want? ”_ Dean bellowed. “What the _fuck_ do you _want?_ You’re driving me up the fucking _wall_ with all your fucking whining and your _fucking_ favors! _What the fuck do you want from me?”_

Crowley kept his voice level, looking Dean right in the eye. “I told you, we should be back down there, ruling Hell together—”

“What, the King and his little consort?” Dean spat.

“Well that’s not how _I_ was going to put it—”

Dean crossed the room again in two strides and jammed a finger into his chest.

“I am _not_ your little _consort_ ,” he growled, “I’m not your little _slut,_ I’m not your little _toy,_ I’m not _yours.”_

Crowley fell back a step, lips parted.

Dean’s voice was rising again, “How'd you think this was gonna go, Fergus? You thought I was just gonna fall into your lap like some hooker you rescued off the street?”

“I never—”

“Drum up some music, sweep me off my feet, dangle a few carrots and ol’ Dean Winchester will follow your beck and call? Crawl up to you whenever you feel like a good fuck? That ain’t how this—”

“Of course it isn’t, you dullard.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, “Excuse me?”

“I don’t want you to be my consort, I want you to be my partner. I always did. I always have.”

Dean’s upper lip twitched, his face a blend of rage and bafflement, “No you don’t.”

“Have you ever taken a second to consider _why_ I’m doing all this for you, Dean? Six months of favors, six weeks of fulfilling your every desire and whim?”

Dean’s eyes were cold. “No, and I don’t care.”

Crowley’s head dropped forward, he sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. Shaking his head, he mumbled something under his breath that sounded like  _“...the Mark talking…”_

Crowley stood back up, squaring his shoulders and raising his eyes to take Dean’s gaze, “I told you I would give you anything and everything you could ever want. Do this for me and see if I can’t keep providing that.”

Dean looked him up and down, then turned away. “Fine,” he said as he flopped onto his bed. “I’ll kill the bitch tonight.”

 

———

 

Dean fucked up the deal.

“The client? You killed the client?”

“Does it matter? He was a douche. Now he’s a dead douche.”

He didn’t even _care_ that he’d fucked up the deal.

And he thought he could just _leave_ after that?

“Hey! Don’t turn your back on me!” Crowley rasped, the order to stay hardly concealed.

Dean sneered. There was a dangerous glint in his eye. He grabbed Crowley by the coat and threw him roughly to the ground.

 

Oh _hell_ no.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Crowley asked as he got back up.

“Oh, whatever I want.”

Of course. Of _course_ that was going to be what bit him in the ass.

But that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Dean had no idea what he wanted. Maybe he did once, he had wanted his freedom, had wanted license to do as he pleased, sometimes he’d even wanted Crowley, and in exchange he had given Crowley what he had always wanted. Well, most of what he’d always wanted.

But if this was how this was going to go, it wasn’t worth it anymore. Even Crowley didn’t deserve this.

Crowley gave him one last chance to pick the right side.

“Or what?” Dean spat, “Go ahead, make a move, see how it ends. I ain't your friggin' bestie, and I ain't taking orders from you. When I need to kill, I'll call. Until then, stay out of my way.”

Fine.

It’s over.

We’re done.

It’s not me, it’s you.

Crowley left and handed him over to Sam.

He told himself that it was for the best.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

The first time Dean called him Crowley again, it was like a knife, surprisingly cold and precise.

 

———

 

Crowley threw himself into the running of his kingdom. He hated it. He hated every moment. Every paper, every meeting, every tortured scream was another pull of a grater against his mangled being.

 

———

 

Things went back to normal between himself and the Winchesters. He'd help, or he wouldn't. Mostly he did, but always for his own gain, he told himself, always for more of the same.

He’d get captured here, get in a few good lines there, manipulate some fool over there— and then he'd go back to his throne. For years he told himself that it was fine. For years he told himself that this was how things went. This was how things were meant to be and anything more was nostalgia, plain and simple. Nothing but weak, naïve… feelings.

Years passed. And he told himself it was fine.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

He agreed to help destroy the Darkness, and told himself it had nothing to do with her hold over Dean.

 

———

 

When Castiel was dying in front of him, he entertained the idea of just... letting him. Some well-earned revenge for his betrayal years ago, but… Feathers wasn't that same desperate rebel anymore. The damned angel had grown on him right alongside the other ‘denim-clad nightmares’, like some sort of extended fa— extended fam— extended acquaintance network.

And Dean… it was written plain as day across his face as Castiel choked and coughed. He was utterly devastated and the bastard wasn’t even dead yet.

So Crowley saved him. Saved a friend, or whatever. Saved an ally for personal benefit. He didn’t save him for Dean, he told himself. That would be stupid of him after all this time.

 

———

 

He came to help them when the nephilim was due, knowing they’d be the ones to pull the world back from the ledge once again. And what did he get? A fist to the face and threats on his life.

Right there he decided. It was time. It was time to go. He could retire… or something.

But what do you even do when there are no souls to gather? No plans to see through? No kingdoms to run?

No lovers to hold.

He told himself he could figure that out later.

For now, he would give the Winchesters his aid, hopefully for the last time. He would give them his aid, because what else did he really have to give?

 

———

 

He had nothing. He was nothing but a broken thing in a meatsuit, chasing a base desire he would never be allowed to hold.

So he gave them that too.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

When Crowley was brought back, he vowed that things would be different. He was in retirement now. He had no time for the past’s bullshit. And for a while he was almost happy. He and Mother spent some time just travelling together. He picked up a few of the side operations Asmodeus hadn't bothered to take control of. He recruited some of his old followers who still enjoyed the thrill of a good double-cross. He got himself set up fairly comfortably, able to do what he pleased and ignore what he didn't, and it was nice. He was… if not _content_ he was... fine. Yes. He was fine. More fine than he had been in a long time.

So when the Winchesters summoned him out of the blue, he told himself he’d deal with it quickly. Letting Mother go on ahead only made keeping his distance easier.

But of course, Mother couldn't hold her bloody temper, so he had to step in.

For a minute there it was actually going to work. They wanted something, he wasn't going to bother giving it to them, and he was going to go back to his terribly relaxing retirement—

But then Moose had to go and say that _stupid_ thing.

And it all came flooding back.

Samantha probably didn't even really mean it, but it was true and had always been true; even hopped up on the Mark it had been blatantly obvious: Dean was a bleeding romantic.

It was all over in an instant. The plan had already formed in his head.

Dean Winchester was his once.

Dean Winchester was his.

And Crowley was going to get him back.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the songs in this piece, and plenty of bonus ones, can be found in the [Drowley Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1261993671/playlist/5XobfZmcUAN9n8PMZxqDSS?si=vSy7zM7GTrOP76QubyuJhw).
> 
> -
> 
> {Just One Dance - Lyrics} 
> 
> Hey, handsome, have you got the time,  
> I've been watching you since the moment you arrived,  
> A white suit from London, and shoes from _Paris,_  
>  Don't'cha wanna spend about an hour with me? 
> 
> The scent and the aroma refuses to breathe,  
> It's more like a haze that is trying to succeed,  
> It's drawing me in and pulling me to you,  
> And every thought I have turns the language blue, 
> 
> All it costs is just a minute now,  
> For one dollar you can show me how,  
> I'll take your hand and then your worries too,  
> In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true,
> 
> Don't know why you play hard to get,  
> I'm here to kiss away any thoughts of regret,  
> The silk tie from Siam shows elegance and class,  
> Handsome as the heavens that a film would never cast,
> 
> But underneath the mask I see the skin of a man,  
> Smooth and seductive who's really got a plan  
> It's drawing me in, magnetically to you,  
> You haven't got forever but I got that, too,
> 
> All it costs is just a minute now,  
> For one dollar you can show me how,  
> I'll take your hand and then your worries too,  
> In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true
> 
> I'm like the smoke on your fire,  
> Smoldering endless desire,  
> How long will your flame burn?
> 
> All it costs is just a minute now,  
> For one dollar you can show me how,  
> I'll take your hand and then your worries too,  
> In just one dance I'll make your dreams come true


End file.
